"best of" poem of the day 08.30.13

the asshole at the end of this bar

has been playing nothing but rap music

on the jukebox

it’s been going on for over an hour now

the entire oeuvre of the beastie boys

and now it’s eminem

he won’t play the black shit

in this joint

all the old drunks are grumbling

but it’s okay

the asshole at the end of this bar

is a new york city fireman

he’s been telling us stories about 9/11

rehashing that bullshit

while the rap music molests our heads

and rattles our bones

he has touched all of the old drunks’ hearts

it’s the only reason that they haven’t killed him yet

suddenly we are all taken back

to that fateful day

they all want to share where they’d been

the asshole at the end of this bar

tells us he wishes he was able to help more people

that he just missed the towers falling down

he arrived too late in my opinion

he gets misty-eyed retelling it

as ol’ eminem

still the poet laureate of the american idiot-ocracy

raps about raping and killing his ex-wife

i stare at

the asshole at the end of this bar

trying to see something in him

trying to see what they are all seeing

a modern day hero

but there is nothing to him

there is flesh and blood, bone

and a little gray matter

that is all

except for his penchant for rap music

so i shoot down my beer

i ask the wife if she wants to go somewhere else

as all the old boys start in on

obama and illegal immigrants

we find another bar about two blocks down

where the asshole at the end of that bar

is nursing a pint of coors light

and bobbing his head

to a cher song

and this is all right with us

for now.

                        07.29.10

"best of" poem of the day 08.29.13

bahamas

benny

hands us our beers

he says

i’m thinking of going

down to the bahamas

for a few days

jet blue has this deal

ninety-five dollar tickets

man, they have

the most beautiful beaches there

white sand

the works

i take my boys down there

every year

they love it

we nod

beaches sound great

the bahamas sound great

with my 90-day layoff notice

stuffed into my bag

it beats watching

the dust settle

on furniture in the apartment

we can no longer afford

my wife looks

at benny’s right hand

it’s bandaged

but there’s an uncovered gash

on his thumb

she says

benny, what happened to your hand?

benny looks at it

then away from us

fell in the bushes

he says

pauses for a second

turns back and says

mona stabbed me twice

we nod again

have more beer

yeah the bahamas sound great

                        05.26.10

"best of" poem of the day 08.28.13

drinking with paul auster at rudy’s

in the bar in hell’s kitchen

we are tired from walking fifty blocks

and tired of the bullshit of manhattan

we have beers and just sit there

the television set is on to football

and the jukebox is playing rap

hell, i say

i remember when this bar

had a small tv on a chain stand

and only blues and latin music

came out of that thing

now they are selling

t-shirts for the bar too

that was only three years ago

then we drink again and have

another round

next to us he is wearing a raincoat

and he has an umbrella though it isn’t raining

he’s got the well-oiled black hair

and the big, lost writerly eyes

i think that’s paul auster,” i tell my wife

we’re drinking with paul auster

auster looks like the back

of one of his book jackets

as he sits with a paperback novel

a vodka and lime

and the penn state game on espn

he looks like everyone else

trying to put one over on life,

feigning at being something better

then he finishes his drink and gets up to leave

it is bright and blue in new york city

but paul auster twirls his umbrella

and makes up 9^th avenue anyway

are you sure that’s paul auster?

my wife asks

no, i say.

but why shouldn’t it be him.

"best of" poem of the day 08.27.13

one for new orleans

there was a bar on decatur street

that we went to

they played good soul music

otis and smoky and james and a little bit of marvin

three black guys

a bass, a guitar, and a drum

the drummer sang

at a nearby table, a woman sat

she wore a gold dress, smoked newports,

and sang along to every song

at the beginning of the second set

she joined the band

they played  midnight train to georgia

it was their signature song

and they played it every night we went in

i wondered why i never tired of the place

on the last night we were in new orleans

i was drunk and had to piss badly

we went into the bar on decatur and the band

did their thing

otis and smoky and james and a little bit of marvin

then the lady in the gold dress

got up to join them

just as i went to hit the can

it was a good piss

on the way out some guy in a backwards hat

grabbed me at the bar

while i was getting two more beers

the music played behind us

midnight train to georgia

you sure like coming in here, he said

and then proceeded to laugh with his friends

when i rejoined my wife

suddenly the band didn’t sound so good

the beer was flat and the cigarettes burned my tongue

the guy that had grabbed me got louder

and he taunted the band as they played

suddenly i knew i was tired of the place

we got up to leave

and the next morning went back north.

                                                                        04.14.06

"best of" poem of the day 08.26.13

trying to pound through the rest of a novel first draft.  so this is going to be "best of" winedrunk week with
all poems being about bars.

from the office to the bar

(a love poem)

i go from one building

to another

one seat

to the next.

they’re really no different,

except one of them has

my soul

and the other one has

my mind.

don’t worry dear, you still have

my heart.

but what’s left for me

in all of this?

the bar tab?

                        02.03.05

poem of the day 08.22.13

decline and fall of the roman empire

it gives you pause

to live in a nation

that makes an enemy of a twenty-five year old kid

and throws him in jail for thirty-five years

for doing what he thought was right for his nation

but continues to let

every thieve

hustler

and fringe lunatic

have a hand in running this nation

it gives you pause

or maybe just a shrug because we’re so used

to this kind of bullshit

coming out of the capital

maybe it doesn’t matter anymore

and we’re beyond all redemption at this point

maybe you just don’t care

and you’ll go and vote this november anyway

for this corporate shill or that

provided you have the right kind of i.d.

of course

i wouldn’t blame you

if you sat this nation out

taking my own look around this worn republic

and the jack-offs in charge

stalemating this place into dust

it’s easy to see why millions of us go home

to get lost in television

alcohol

our gadgets

and the pursuit of happy binge eating

until we pass out into unmade beds

waking up the next morning

to find out who this week’s villain will be

over coffee and pulp-free o.j.

a politician

a movie starlet

a celebrity chef

or some scared techy who worked for the nsa

this is the new american ideal

where kids kill out of boredom

where prisoners go on hunger strikes for a fair shake

and fast food workers take to the streets

asking to trade one-dollar hamburgers for a livable wage

while their corporate head honchos

sit in board rooms figuring out a way for these people

to balance their budgets on two jobs

and make more money out of their bottom line

where thirty-thousand people cheer

a drug cheat aging jock on his last legs

take a fastball to the neck

just to feel wholesome and self-righteous

about their own hollow lives

this is the fall and decline of the roman empire, you fools

the long-awaited sequel

coming at you in 2D, real 3D, and imax

the first scene of this thriller

a bankrupt detroit rambler passing through

wasteland main streets

with billboards for wal-mart and target

hanging in the dust-blown distance

offering everyday low prices on shit that no one needs

as this summer’s radio jam plays a bombastically

over spliced cute cat videos

looping over images of superman and iron man

fucking shit up

before super-sizing their asses all the way to the bank

where one-thousand dead

across a rapidly rising ocean

and our own tyranny at home

is a footnote

next to some bad actor dying

or whether or not a pop star cut her hair

and you thought the apocalypse would be nasty?

                                                                       

poem of the day 08.21.13

talos

they used to shout insults

at us catholic school kids

as we walked home from school

they called us faggots or dykes or pussies

from the safety of their public school bus

none of us kids could argue the point with them

because we were the ones

dressed in oxford shirts and polyester pants and plaid skirts

it seemed like there was

a fleet of those kids on the bus

denim-clad and long-haired

giving us the finger as they drove by

they were your run-of-the-mill burnouts

but we called them talos

i had no clue where the name came from

only that i was getting tired of the daily abuse

of being called a homo

and dodging crushed coke cans coming at me

when i was just trying to get home from school

something had to be done

the next time that school bus went by

and those talos started in with their invective

and finger gestures

i stopped walking and stated shouting back

anything that i could think of

faggot

assholes

cocksuckers

douche bags

motherfuckers

it was vulgar poetry to me

getting to shout those words

while i hopped up and down in my place

i gave them the finger

i gave them the bread basket

with both hands in front of my crotch

like i was packing a python

moving back and forth in a thrusting motion

as the public school bus drove on into the distance

and the kids on it went rabid with violence

and the stiffs coming home from work

started rubbernecking, watching the good catholic boy

angrily hump at air

i thought that i was such a big man

giving those talo pricks a dose of their own medicine

i thought that my actions would be

the grand finish to our daily dialog

that we’d be on an even level now

but then a block down the road

there they came on foot

the talos in one long stream of hulking bodies

the male ones and their female ones

it was like an army of long-haired bastards

smoking cigarettes

shouting and pointing at me from the distance

snarling traffic and defiling trees

for weapons and the sheer fun of it

and they were all coming for me.

                                                           

poem of the day 08.20.13

spilt milk

we were both locked into

a fraudulent dogma

freshman in an all-boys catholic high school

with no pussy in sight

not that any girl would fuck either of us anyway

marcel funke and me

two boys from the old lawrenceville neighborhood

who hadn’t seen each other in twelve years

enemy combatants from the infant days of reagan

me kicking his ass some days

and he biting a piece of my arm off the next

set to rekindle our little war

but the kids in high school were indifferent to me

while most of them hated marcel

in class, they’d put shit like gum on his seat

or gave him wet willies in the ear

at lunch he got hit with projectile food

french fries and unwanted carrot and cheese sticks

was spit on during our recess time

as the class of us were forced to walk the ancient quadrangle

to try and change his image

marcel singled me out one day in the cafeteria line

he tried to start a fight

by telling everyone that he used to kick my ass

in the old neighborhood

this didn’t faze me too much

but i said, all right, marcel

and i used to catch you in the bathrooms at arsenal park

sniffing and licking davy krokus’ asshole

which wasn’t true

but everyone believed me anyway

some of my classmates used it as something new

to ostracize old marcel with

much to my chagrin

he never came back for sophomore year

but the one real memory that i do have of marcel funke

was the time he stormed out of his house naked

pouring out a gallon of whole milk onto the street

as he ran around in circles chanting

no one cries over spilt milk

no one cries over spilt milk

while his mother screamed bloody murder

and tried to cover him with a towel

it was the most perfect insanity that i’d ever seen

up until that point

and to this day when i’m feeling low rent

yet somewhat remorseful

i sometimes think

maybe i should’ve used that anecdote

on him

instead.

                                    

poem of the day 08.19.13

enemy state

passing the street festival

twelve days of work and one off

and the people are smiling

sitting in the cruel sun drinking sodas and light beer

eating corn on the cob and greasy wieners

all that i can think

waiting to cross the street with my wine bottles

my red eyes and the merciless pain in the small of my back

is how disgusting they all look

how they look like grinning, chomping road kill

a rested and well-adjusted farce if ever i saw one

and that each and every one of these slap-happy cretins

from the youngest to the oldest

have become my true and stark sworn enemies

this place morphed into my fucking prison

my enemy state with cheap carnival rides

fried dough and another shitty local band

playing covers of dreadful radio songs

and when the light changes

i turn from this obnoxious circus and walk on

somnolent and brow-beaten

by the hapless art of my existence

but still so very very glad

that i’m not an ounce like any of them

and that i

don’t own a gun

                                   

poem of the day 08.16.13

poets making fun of other poets

is nothing new

they’ve been doing it for centuries

but now you can see them going to town

on social networking sites or on their shitty blogs

posting links to some poor bastard’s writing

and then picking it apart line by line or as one whole

like they’re maxwell perkins or gordon fucking lish

soon some of the other poets start to join in

and it’s a free-for-all of mediocre word slingers

picking apart some absent bastard’s poem

about slugs or waterfalls or sunsets in cabo

these poets think they’re in the right

because their poems are about tough shit

like being broke or having a horrible job

because some half-assed journal

likes the way that they get it down

but really their poems are no different from ones

about slugs or waterfalls or sunsets in cabo

in most instances they're worse

and read very much like every other poem

in the half-assed journals that they're featured in

but you’d never know it

by the way they go on ripping someone

because these types have the group on their side

the good old boy network of shitty poets

stroking each other’s pricks

or the fanboys who want to get in good

with another pedestrian wordsmith wasting bandwidth

so they pick apart this poor bastard line by line

someone who has been published in as many bad mags as they have

and these poem-dullards think they are so righteous

and so brilliant

the boldest poem-shitters on the planet

but what these asshole don’t know

what they fail to realize

is that art is as subjective as a sunny day

and that there is always someone else around the block

or half-way across the world

whose just made the sad mistake of reading one of their

literary lumps of excrement

and are going on their social networking sites and blogs

to pick their genius apart

starting this sad cycle all over again

or they’re taking the high road this time

and just plain tossing aside the magazine

or flipping off their pcs

staying silently mad at the world

or hungry over the time they lost reading

another worthless piece of art.

                                                          

poem of the day 08.15.13

heavyweights

nobody had a clue

what they were always fighting about

but every so often

they’d slam down their beers

and put up their fists

they’d dance around the small bar

like a couple of worn-out heavyweights

ducking and jabbing

while the rest of us tired bastards

made love to our drinks

and tried to listen to the jukebox

tried to carve out a few hours

before bed and work the next day

of course someone had to shout

knock him the hell out!

but then just like that

the fight would be over

and they’d go back to bullshitting and drinking

like they were the best of friends

it would be sooner rather than later

that one of them would start again

then the fists would come up

and the dance would begin anew

ali and frazier

fred and ginger

they’d sometimes take it into the street

and do their little routine for the stiffs

carrying pizzas and ice cream

a lot of us waited for some citizen to call the cops

and someone in the bar would always shout

for the love of christ, lock the goddamned doors!

but no one got there in time

and they’d be back inside again

the best of pals

arms slung around each other’s shoulders

like war buddies

ready to fight and drink off and on all night

until one of them passed out

or stumbled the hell home

we never figured out what it was between them

but they were something to watch

in between the mets innings

and grateful dead songs

even though they never landed a punch

when the joint closed for good

and the bunch of us went scattering for other stools

i always thought i’d end up somewhere

and see those two guys again

doing their crooked waltz as the sun came down

but eventually all the great ones retire or they get too old

they lose the zest for violence

and the rest of us blood thirsty fools

get nothing in return for our patronage

but stale beer and adele songs playing for hours

some old fuck muttering to himself

or the seven o’clock news

blaring from two wide screen televisions

on another useless friday night

                                               

poem of the day 08.14.13

stressed

the young women are hugging

because young women hug

when they haven’t seen each other in a few days

she says i’m leaving on friday

and the other ones eyes bug out

so soon? she says

because i think i’m funny

and think that i can still relate to the youth

i tell the departing girl

hey, you can have my job and i’ll go to college for you

no way, she says

you looked so stressed all of the time

i’m not stressed,  i tell her

you could’ve fooled me

then the young women go back to talking about college

and the things of being young

while i sit there stewing in my gray, aged malaise

with my constant headaches and sour stomach

the neck and back pinches

the constant worries about jobs and bills

trying to convince myself through another bout of heartburn

that i’m not stressed

that feeling like this is normal

and one day those smiling young women will see

but really

i hope that they never feel this way

i hope it’s laughter and hugging and wide-eyed illusions

until they reach the grave

thinking that despite myself

there may be some hope for humanity yet.

poem of the day 08.13.13

poem to my niece on her second birthday

as you get older

you realize more and more each day

that people are despicable gas bags

and half of what they say is a lie

the other half is nothing but false promises in the rain

the point is, kid

i don’t know your laugh

i don’t know your smile

your eye color is a mystery to me

yet we are bound by so much lackluster bullshit

where do we even get started?

we are time’s cursed gene pool

a walk in the park only in my head

a trip to the zoo that will never happen

hell, i can’t even get your mother to thank me

for your birthday gift

two books and gift card

because that’s what you give

when you don’t know shit about shit

when flesh and blood react like virtual strangers

but i don’t need her thanks

it’s enough right now to know that you’re out there

trying to get by in this world

her false sentiment would only spoil the moment

and i have less and less time for artifice each day

besides

if we’re being honest here

it’s not as though i’ve tried to be in your life

so let’s just say

happy birthday

and get on with this business of living

i hope it’s a good one baby girl

because you’re going to have one hell of a climb

in these families

i’m sure our paths will cross

sooner rather than later

and then we can collide like the cosmos

with you telling me everything

and me taking it all in

like i’m the child in need of loving consultation.

                                    

poem of the day 08.12.13

two extra minutes

waiting

two extra minutes

the bus driver lets
the lady and her daughter
run into the laundry to make change

while the bus idles and the good people
starting bitching about the audacity of it all

how unfair this is to their time

a whole busload of red-faced fool’s

moaning complaining

coming from or going to

our miserable jobs

only no one thinks to mention

the unfairness

in that

sad fact

 

HIATUS

Hello All

WineDrunk SideWalk will be on hiatus until Monday, August 19th.
sorry.

take care
JG

poem of the day 08.07.13

an easy way to discredit the value of drinking

have some kids

or maybe find god and join a church

or sit on this bus

after working six with one day off

hungering for a drink

as your only salvation from this drudgery

all the while listening to some asshole

with a bluetooth stuck in his ear like a suppository

talk about how twisted he got last night

on

vodka

beer

and

of course

those two fucking shot of henny

my man

like it’s some kind of party

the need to feel this way

instead of stark fucking necessity.

                                   

poem of the day 08.06.13

poem for the girl in the purple mini

who thinks that i stole her phone

now you know for a fact

that we checked through your books twice

i even removed the return bin

scanned the floor

and found only a few dead ants

and, all right, when the office door slammed shut

and i made that joke

about you being trapped in here forever

well, even that wasn’t really in poor taste

it certainly wasn’t worth your ire

but i didn’t steal your cell phone

so please stop glaring at me

while i’m trying to do my job

the a.c. is broken and it’s like a swamp in here

i’m famous for my short fuse in the heat

so i don’t have time for some fourteen year-old kid

in a purple mini dress giving me the evil eye

while i sweat my ass off

give your evil eye to the boys playing video games

i didn’t take your phone, kid

no matter how high tech you told me it was

if it’s so high tech let it find you

i don’t even want a cell phone

yours or anyone else’s

i hate those things

i have poems and blog posts dedicated to my revulsion

if i have it my way i’ll be the last man in the world

without a cell phone

happily

and that goes for e-readers and gps

and all of that other horseshit that you fucking aliens need

just to walk down the street now

maybe i’m the alien

i swear i got sucked into a multiverse

around 2003 or 2004

and now i’m stuck with all of you thumb-tapping morons

you know what, kid?

you probably left your cell phone at home

or on the subway

you kids are always leaving shit

you’d walk out of the house without your heads

if they weren’t screwed on tight

some five year-old on the 7 train is probably half-way to queens

playing games on your phone

or some thug is deleting all of your shit

and making it his

but it wasn’t me, girly girl

i just work here

and i’ve grown fond of keeping a roof over my head

so i’m not risking this job

for some fucking phone that can track my every move

my advice to you next time

is to wear some pants with pockets

or carry a bag

you’re too young to be wearing a purple mini skirt anyway

i mean who let you out of the house like that?

your parents?

if i had a cell phone i’d give them a call right now

and tell them to come pick you

but, like i said, i don’t have a cell phone

and now you don’t have a cell phone

so let me be the first person

to welcome you to 1984, kid

where we made it just fine

without all of that bells and gadget shit

where the only surveillance comes from

a george orwell novel

a kindler, simpler time

with a president who’s still more an actor

than he thinks

and everyone keeps asking

where’s the beef?

                                    

poem of the day 08.05.13

millennial blues

he says

what separates the kids today from before

is that they seem to lack any and all curiosity

for the world around them

well, this may be true

but more and more the world

seems to lack anything to be curious about

except its own demise

so i try not to place the blame solely on them

because it’s computer games

and war all of the time for everyone now

forty-two ounce sodas and energy drinks

until our hearts swell and burst

as we slip further from the subtle niceties

and the vanguards of the past

although it is good to shed the skin at times

deep down i do wonder what these millennial blues

are really giving us

scattered self-importance?

so much meta that it becomes madness?

this year’s once-in-a-lifetime storm?

emotional impotence by the bucket

as we slide gracelessly into the cacophony

of caterwauling ceaseless opinion and discord 

time will tell, says the fifteen year-old

in the nirvana t-shirt

scanning his phone with his thumb

reading naruto manga books

and tweeting about what an old fart i am

and it makes me want to slap him

for hijacking my nostalgia and being so goddamned unaware

still, a kid like this

could be running the country

by the time i’m shitting myself and mainlining ensure

a whole generation of world leaders

with their heads buried in their cell phones

watching videos of jack-offs on skateboards

getting their nuts smashed on metal poles

bitching about their shitty u.n. lunch

and the piss stain on the prime minister’s pants

as nations burn, burn, burn like neon bar lights

and the rich stick ivory dildos up their ass

while the next generation of picassos

spray paint graffiti

on the flood walls of soon-to-be underwater cities

telling each other how hot and bored

they are with everything

all of the time

                                               

poem of the day 08.02.13

poem to the asshole blasting

angry birds on his ipad

please disregard and don’t confuse

my thoughtful stares directed your way

because in my head i’m really thinking

of slingshot-ing you across this bus

and out its open doors

watching as you and your ipad

splatter like a starfish, bloody and flesh full

on the coal-black bricks of the apple savings bank

just across this rainy and oil drenched street.

                                                          

                                                            

poem of the day 08.01.13

hunka-hunka

all of these little shakespeare’s out there

pissing out poems

and i’m stuck on another dead morning

listening to the radio

with nothing in my head

but the cost of food and comic books

i stare at the wall

at pictures of elvis presley

the icon of an era that is starting to become

dead and gone

and i think elvis never wrote any of his songs

he never had to sit there in the morning

with a headache

or a pinched nerve in his neck

plant his ass on a cheap, hardwood chair

really trying to figure out the subtle cadence

of love me tender

or what it meant to be a hunka-hunka anything

well, i feel like a hunka-hunka shit this morning

a morning where art is no pleasure

where it is no amazing pulse sensing through me

mornings like this

the very act of finding the word feels like work

like another goddamned job that i awaken to

there is no one in this room

to love me tender right now

there is not sympathy for the poor fool

who cannot write

who cannot create at his own command

hell, i wish that i were elvis this morning

have someone else sit in this four-walled cell

and do all the grudge work

sweat out line after line

while all i did was put on a gold suit

curl my lips and swivel my hips

make the good girls scream

and wet their little panties

like they used to do on television

every time that bastard from tupelo

showed up

to sing someone else’s songs

making them all believe that they

were his

and his alone.                                        04.18.12